“Nothing,” I said. “I’m gonna go change. And shower.”
“Good idea,” Mom said, her voice drifting in from the kitchen. “Dinner’s in thirty.”
“Gotcha,” I said, hoping to disguise my panic. “Won’t take long.”
I glanced around, then back down at the spreading pool of saltwater on the living room floor. I felt a strange sense of vertigo—the room stretched out like taffy. The Persian-looking gold and red throw rug swirled in strange patterns. I closed my eyes and waited for the dizziness to pass. I half-expected the water to be gone when my eyes popped open again.
No such luck. The pool, spreading across the hard-wood floor, began to kiss the tassels of the rug. I turned around, searching for something, anything. My grandma’s hand-sewn gold afghan stretched across the back of the couch. Sorry, Grandma. I tugged it off the couch and tried to soak up the pool as best I could. It wasn’t terribly absorbent, but after enough tries it did the job.
The floor still shined, but the majority of the water clung to the blanket. I spun the afghan into a ball, clutched it tight to me to minimize dripping, and shuffled down the hall. My weakened ankle almost gave out as I ran up the stairs, but I threw myself up the final steps to the top landing. I half-crawled, half-scrambled to my room, ripped open the door, and slammed it behind me.
I took a huge breath. My lungs stretched and creaked and it felt like my ribs would pop.
In my bathroom, I tossed the afghan in the sink and pushed it down until it was mostly wrung-out. The grey, briny water smelled just like the ocean in the Not-A-Dream.
I stripped out of the soaking, torn clothes I had been wearing for nearly twenty-four hours. I’d been chased, shot, lost, and drowned in them, but I still couldn’t bring myself to toss them in the trash.
I wrung everything out, soaked it in lilac moisturizing body wash, and scrubbed the bejeezus out of it. The beach stink was strong, but a few soaks and scrubs later and it was barely noticeable. I hung the outfit and the blanket from the hooks on my door and took a shower.
I’d never taken a better shower. When I came out of it, my cherry-red skin felt amazing, and my muscles were warm putty. I dried off, blow-dried my hair, and wrapped myself in my fluffy orange bathrobe. I walked into my fluffy orange sandals and dived across my bed.
Twenty-minutes later, drifting at the edge of consciousness, wrapped in the warm cocoon of my bathrobe and my covers, I heard my door rattle in its frame. I perked up, and my eyes began to focus.
“Luce?”
“Come in.”
Mom slid the door open, wearing a small, understanding smile.
“Feel better?”
“Loads,” I said. “Dinner?”
“Yup.”
She didn’t move though, and her hand still gripped my door handle with white-knuckled strength. I cocked my head and sat up slowly. I wanted to ask her if everything was okay, but her face answered the question for me.
Her eyes turned down, but I could see the crystal sheen of tears there. She took a breath that sounded like canvas ripping. The door slammed into the wall as she released it without thinking, and she flashed across the room. Her arms wrapped around me, and she tugged me to my feet.
“Oh God, Lucy,” she sobbed, her voice broken. “Oh God, I thought… We all thought… Oh God.”
My arms hung at my sides, even as she pythoned me and drew me in. She smelled like a mixture of strawberries and smoke—not the smoke of the beach fires, the smoke of cigarettes. Mom hadn’t smoked in ten years, and Dad had never smoked. Her head trembled against my chest, and her body convulsed with sobs.
That’s when I knew something was wrong. Right then, I knew something inside of me had broken. I’d never seen my mom this emotional—it should have torn me apart, I realized. I could picture me, just as I was, a bright orange-terry cloth dolly weeping in her arms, overcome just like she was. Scooped up in the wave of relief beside her. And part of me felt relief, and part of me felt tearful. But nothing came. Not even numbness—the sense of pain behind a wall. There was no wall, and the pain wasn’t real. Wasn’t pain.
She looked up at me.
“I can’t believe you’re safe.”
I offered only a weak smile. I didn’t disagree.
Her tears spilled over onto her cheeks, little streaks illuminated by the crystal blue of her eyes. My mom was prettier than me—not cuter, but prettier. More delicate. I didn’t realize how delicate until now. I'd always seen her as being so strong, as knowing everything and having every answer. Learning she was human after all didn’t give me any sense of comfort or enlightenment. It made me feel…empty. Lonely.
I opened my mouth and sucked in a harsh breath. A thin, almost invisible stream of white smoke whirled out from between my mother’s pursed lips and sucked up my mouth and nostrils. A surge of electricity hit me and threw my head back. My heartbeat doubled, and I felt my muscles tense and release. Not a spasm, but sudden energy.
Like biting down on aluminum foil soaked in caffeine.
A jumble of images hit me, things I’d never experienced—the dial pad on a phone, shaking and blurry, through a curtain of tears. A hunger, like I’d forgotten to eat in the shuffle of Lucy’s disappearance. No, not “I.” She. Mom. I tried to pull myself out of the vision, to distinguish my memories from hers, but the tide was too strong. A green plastic basket full of red, the only thing I didn’t have to cook.
I snapped my mouth closed, but the taste of strawberries still burned on my tongue. Fresh strawberries, too, like I’d just eaten a whole basket. But I, me, Lucy, hadn’t eaten anything. The sensation of having just popped a strawberry into my mouth was overwhelming.
I opened my eyes and looked back down. My mom’s eyes were closed, like she was sleeping, but she still sat stock-straight, and her face was white. Her lip twitched, and tiny muscle spasms shook her shoulders in little jerks.
I grabbed her hands and tugged at her arms.
“Mom! Mom!”
I squeezed as hard as I could and jerked like I’d pull her shoulders out. She didn’t move—she didn’t open her eyes.
“Mom!”
I reeled back and slapped her.
Her eyes popped open. My hand glowed with pain.
“Luce?”
She reached up, rubbing the red mark spreading across her cheek.
“Mom, you…you drifted out,” I said. “I thought something had happened.”
“No…” she said. “I didn’t, did I?”
I nodded too fast. I was just glad to see her awake and aware.
“Yeah.” I tried to laugh. “Maybe Mommy needs a nap, too.”
Mom looked down at herself, confusion fighting shock. She shook her head and quirked a tiny smile.
“I didn’t sleep very much.”
I believed her. The dark circles under her eyes would have looked at home on a runaway heroin addict. I squeezed her shoulder, feeling a buildup of that manic energy I’d stolen from her. Stolen? Eaten? I closed my eyes and pinched those thoughts off. I hadn’t stolen anything. I was tired. She was tired. I’d spent a long dream—You. Weren’t. Dreaming—in a far off, very boring land severely lacking in color palette. And now I was hallucinating.
Considering the day I’d had, I’d be surprised if I wasn’t hallucinating.
“Dinner?” I asked.
“Dinner,” Mom echoed, and untangled herself from me. She composed herself quickly. “Get dressed like a human, Lucy.”